


The Florist

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst, Beekeeping, Case Fic, Florists, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Lonely John, M/M, Mystery, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-01-20 15:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18528172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: John Watson comes home from war, injured, to find his brother is dead. So he throws everything out and buys a motel in a small town, hoping to restart.That's where he meets Sherlock Holmes, a strange, socially awkward florist with a gift.But the town of Fernsby is more than meets the eye.





	1. Fernsby

John opened his windows and turned the car radio down.   
It was a nice day out to travel, all sunshine and perfectly medium-warm temperatures and light breezes, but it still felt a bit hard to breathe in the air.   
The music was one of those pop-singer types John didn't like—some guy with shaggy hair and an acoustic guitar and an ego bigger than his dick. He didn't know quite why the type disgruntled him so much, but he turned the radio off and listened to the white noise from his open window.   
His suitcase bounced about in the trunk, and he thought it probably damaged his laptop, a fear that crawled anxiously across his mind the remainder of the trip. He didn't have the money for a new one.   
Funny, how everything he owned really fit in that suit case. It would've been sad if he didn't get rid of so much before he left. But he survived with less in the army, so why carry extra baggage?   
He had been driving about an two hours. He'd bought a plane ticket just over halfway to his destination, so he only needed a three hour drive. It still tired him out—he'd lived in London so long he'd nearly forgotten how to drive.   
But with the crappy used Nissan he was driving, he wasn't surprised that it took more than a little effort to touch up his skill.   
It was all he could afford with the cash from his tag sale and brother's life insurance—after his travel expenses—and, of course, his biggest purchase of all, Fernsby Motel.   
He hadn't even gone to see the place before buying it—he'd looked at pictures online—but the thing was going for cheap and he wanted to get out of London before he lost his mind, and—why not? He couldn't live on his army pension forever, and his mother had always told him that one day she would buy an inn on a big hill and they'd live upstairs and know everyone in the little town beneath the hill.   
That was a child's dream, of course, but why not go for it?  
Those were his thoughts as he drove down the rural roads to Fernsby.   
  
  
Fernsby Motel looked a bit like a haunted house from some classic horror film.   
It stood on the hill, shadowing everything in it's wake with it's looming form. It was a bit Victorian in appearance—though the rooms themselves (separated from the main house into two blocks) looked much more modern.   
The inside was decorated like something straight out of the 60s—and John realized that was probably the last time anyone had lived inside. It smelt of mold and dust. He crinkled his nose and searched for a scented candle to light.   
The place had come with all the furniture, so at least he didn't have to worry about that. He walked up the creaky stairs to the second floor and peered into the master bedroom.   
It had a big window overlooking the hill that spilled sunlight across the old furniture. There was a fourposter bed and a dresser. John only filled two drawers of it.   
“Yeah,” he said to no one in particular. “Yeah, this is gonna work. I can do this.”   
He sat on the bed and tried not to cry.   
  
  
Life for the first week in Fernsby was. . .something. Menial, mostly. John ripped out moldy carpets and fixed toilets and generally spent a lot of time cleaning and dusty and scrubbing things, only leaving to get groceries once.   
He hadn't actually spoken to anyone in three days (the day before he had talked about the weather with the man who owned the dump he was giving his trash to) and it was starting to get a bit. . .numbing. He found himself muttering a lot.   
He was in a new town, he didn't know anyone, and he had no family. John Watson was officially alone.   
  
He decided going for drinks might be a good idea, maybe mingle, maybe take someone home—but he was disgruntled to find the only people at the pub were an old man, two middle aged women, and a young girl (nineteen, maybe?) who was piss drunk.   
The night was still young when he left, so he decided a walk around town wouldn't be a bad idea.   
It was mostly local businesses, and they were mostly closed, until he came upon a flower shop with the lights still on and an “Open” sign (very ornately painted and pretty) on the door.   
John wondered what kind of flower shop would be open at midnight. He decided it would be in his best interest to find out.   
It was the smell that hit him first.   
Daffodils and lilies and lavender and honeysuckle—it smelt like a fresh spring day, just after a good rain. And God, there were _so_ _many_ flowers here—in rows on tables and under special lights and in little boxes and hanging from the ceiling. All thriving, all in their prime—not a single specimen shriveled or drooping. He'd never seen anything like it.   
This place looked like the Garden of Eden.   
“Hello.”   
The voice startled him. He turned around to see a man about his age—maybe a couple of years younger, at the counter.   
He was tall and thin, all angular and pale, with unruly dark curls and porcelain skin and eyes like rainwater.   
He was wearing green gardening gloves and had an apron on, all smudged with dirt.   
“Oh, er, hi,” John said. “I was just, em—“   
“Wondering why I'm open so late? Bit curious?”   
The man smiled. John swallowed.   
“Yeah, actually,” he said, easing up a bit. He returned the smile.   
“I like to make sure the plants have everything they need,” the man explained. “And see that the bees are in their place.”   
“You have _bees_ here?”   
The man's face lit up.  
“Oh yes,” he said. “Honey bees, _apis_ _mellifera_ , if you will. They're in the green house, would you like to see?” Before John could even reply, the man's face fell and he blushed. “Sorry, I forgot, erm—my manners. You probably don't want to see my bees.”   
John smiled. This florist was a funny fellow.   
“Actually, I think it's kind of interesting.” He decided to get a bit bold. “What's your name?”   
“Sherlock Holmes.” The man stuck out his hand, then took it back, hastily took off the glove, and stuck it back out. John shook it.   
“John Watson. It's good to meet someone, I've just moved into the motel up the road and it's been really quiet.”   
“Oh, Fernsby Motel?” The man called Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “That's. . . .nice.”   
He was a bit socially awkward, this one.   
“So the bees,” John said.   
“Oh yes! Follow me.”   
John probably should've been worried about getting ax-murdered, but this florist Sherlock Holmes seemed a bit innocent for that.

He led him to the back, revealing a surprisingly large greenhouse abuzz with bees and more flowers and herbs.   
Sherlock Holmes didn't bother with a suit, he just approached the bees as if it were nothing. John followed, not particularly nervous about getting stung.   
He'd never seen so many bees in his life. Sherlock just opened the hive excitedly. “See the queen?” he said. John peered in and spotted the largest bee.  
“She's like the mum, right?”   
“Yes, in fact, she's produced every single bee in the colony. Isn't she magnificent?”   
“Yeah, she is.”   
John was so busy admiring the bees that he didn't feel one land on his hand. He felt a sharp pang.   
“Ah!”   
He'd been stung.   
“Oh!” Sherlock looked tremendously agitated. “I'm sorry, let me—here, this way.”   
He led John out of the green house.   
“I'm so sorry, they don't normally sting, I swear—“   
“It's fine,” John said. “It's just a sting. I've been shot before, this is nothing.”   
He didn't know what on earth compelled him to say that.   
“Oh, well. . .here.” The florist picked up a box of primroses and handed it to John. “On me, for the new motel. Also, sorry my bees stung you.”   
John looked down at them.   
“That's funny, these are my favorite flowers. My mum used to plant them,” he said quizzically.   
“I know,” Sherlock said.  
He froze, flushing again.   
“I mean, I didn't know your mother planted them, but I knew—I knew you liked primroses. I always know, it's—kind of a gift.”   
John smiled.   
“Well, thanks. It was good to meet you. For the record, I liked your bees, even though they stung.”   
As he left, he saw a smile on the stranger's face.

 


	2. The Neighbor

When John woke the next morning, he thought the florist had been a dream; but when he looked out his window at the porch, the primroses were swaying gently in the breeze.  
His hand also had a small mark on it.  
He smiled to himself.   
  
The motel would be ready to open in a month, when tourists started traveling and needed a place to stay. Fernsby wasn't exactly a tourist-y town, but people did pass through.  
He cleaned a bit more, had lunch, cleaned, had coffee, cleaned. The day was beginning to become painfully dull. He went back inside and decided to inspect the attic.   
  
He hadn't been in the attic—as a rule, he tried not to go anywhere that he could potentially get a disease (this place hadn't been inspected in years), but boredom is a strong motivator.   
It was one small room, filled with junk and dust and mold. There were a few pieces of old furniture, a frayed quilt, someone's coat.   
Overall, piles of crap.   
He looked at stuff anyways. There was almost nothing personal here—no photographs or anything, just miscellaneous items. He was about to leave when he spotted something on a high shelf.   
He reached for it, but wasn't tall enough. Cursing his height, he dragged an old trunk over and stood on top of it.   
The thing he'd seen was apparently a very old looking Bible. The pages were peeling and yellow, the spine brown leather. He felt as though it might crumble in his hands.   
Fascinated, he flipped open the first few pages and found the print date:   
  
_Printed 1765  
  
_ God, this thing was old. Curiously, he flipped a couple more pages and something fluttered out. He bent down to reach for it when he was startled by the door bell.   
“Coming!” he said, even though they probably couldn't hear. Putting the book back on the shelf, he hurried down the stairs and to the door.   
He opened it up to a stout old woman, maybe 60 years of age, with short hair and a kind face.   
“Hello, you're the new owner, right?”   
“John Watson.” John stuck out his hand, and the woman shook it.   
“My name is Martha Hudson. I'm your neighbor. I just thought it would be nice to say hello and bring you this.”   
She handed him a tray of biscuits.   
“Oh, that's lovely, thank you,” John said, pleasantly surprised by the woman's thoughtfulness. “Why don't you come in, have a cuppa?”  
“That's all right dear, I have to get finished with my gardening. Just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. I live in the blue house, stop by anytime.”   
“Likewise. Nice to meet you, Mrs Hudson.”   
“By now.”   
  
Over the next week, John developed a bit of a friendship with his neighbor. They chatted about weather and the news and such. And she made brilliant biscuits.   
“This garden's amazing, Mrs Hudson,” John said when she'd proudly shown him some sparkling petunias one morning.   
“Oh, it's all because of Sherlock. That's where I get them, you know,” she humbled. “Have you been?”   
John looked up at her, surprised.   
“Yeah, actually, we met.”   
“Isn't his shop beautiful? Anyway, he always tells me exactly how to care for them, they never fail. I need some more grass seed, care to join me?”   
John took his keys from his pocket.   
“Sure, let's go.”   
  
  
He didn't know quite why, but he'd been itching for an excuse to go back to _Holmes_ _Flowers_ _and_ _Honey_ ever since he'd first stumbled upon it that night. He couldn't quite get the awkward florist out of his head.   
He walked into the shop a little too enthusiastically.   
Sherlock Holmes was watering plants in acute concentration. In fact, he was actually _measuring_ _out_ how much to water each individual specimen, like a scientist in a lab.   
“Mrs Hudson,” he said without looking. “Grass seed?”   
“You always know,” Mrs Hudson said with a smile, looking for the packet. Sherlock turned around.   
“Oh, and John Watson.” He smiled. “What brings you here?”   
“Mrs Hudson is my neighbor,” John explained. “I've just come with her. How. . .how're the bees?”   
Sherlock's face immediately perked up.   
“Lovely. They're producing so much, I've a tremendous amount of honey—the shelves in the back are just _covered_ with jars, and I've done some experimenting with the flowers I put in, the honey is actually _sweeter_ —“ The beekeeper blushed. “Sorry, rambling again.”   
John smiled.   
“No, I actually. . .I like to hear about it.”   
“Found it!” Mrs Hudson said triumphantly, brandishing her packet of grass seed. “This will show those Mormons across the street, I will _not_ have _brown_ _spots_ on my lawn.”   
Sherlock grinned, sending John a look that sent heat rushing to his neck.   
_Don't blush. God, don't be an idiot._  
“Good luck with the grass, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said on their way out. “And I'll. . .see you around, John.”   
“Yeah.”   
The door closed behind them, the little bell ringing cheerfully. John tried to get the heat out of his cheeks.

 


	3. Irene Adler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely comments! I'll continue to update consistently!

_Three Months Ago, London  
  
_ John found it not too strange that Harry had failed to pick him up from the airport, but it was still disappointing. After all, he had just come back from Afghanistan, and expected him to at least. . .well, what did he expect? For his brother to be happy about his return? To be excited enough not to ignore it in exchange for getting plastered? He guessed that was too much to ask.   
He got a cab home instead, still in okay spirits despite his annoyance. He was home, it was going to be. . .weird, for a while, he knew that.   
Cursing his leg as he threw his luggage to the ground on the threshold, he called out,   
“Harry! I'm home, you sod. Did you forget I was coming back today?”   
No answer.   
Eyebrows furrowed, he peered around the kitchen and parlor.   
“Harry, you twat, don't ignore me. Where are you?” He limped into Harry's bedroom and found it. . .spotlessly clean.   
Not just clean, though.   
_Empty.  
_“Fuck,” he muttered. He took his mobile out and dialed for Harry again, this time letting it ring until it stopped.   
_The number you're trying to reach is no longer active._  
Now his stomach was sinking. Where was his brother? Did he find another girl and crash at her place? But why would his room be clean? And why would his mobile be inactive? 

 

 _Present Day, Fernsby  
  
  
_ Irene Adler didn't hate men.   
No, she liked many men—men who were kind and compassionate and strong—but she _despised_ men who acted like little boys, and unfortunately, that was many of them.   
Walking away from another twat pouting _“Aw babe, c'mun, I was just taking the piss,”_ after calling her a bitch, she stubbed her cigarette out and straightened the collar of her shirt.   
“We're all done, Bry. Find someone else to pay for your weed.”   
She got in her car and drove off.   
  
Irene was no idiot—she had a degree neuroscience, in fact, which some would say made her something of a genius, really. She knew the inner workings of the human mind like she knew the road to her house. She was clever like that.   
She wasn't, apparently, as clever when it came to finding a suitable partner, because it seemed whatever boyfriend she picked up inevitably disappointed her. Maybe she'd try girls for a bit.   
She pondered her options until she pulled up to the flower shop.   
“Sherlock, you'll never _believe_ what this idiot did.”   
Popping off her jacket, she plopped into the chair beside the counter and started her rant.   
Sherlock was an excellent friend, in part because he was just a good human being and always listened to her, but also because he was gay, which meant she never had to worry about him turning creepy or expecting dates. Besides, they'd known each other since Primary School, they were like brother and sister, really. An awkward gay kid with a gift and a girl who could name more elements on the periodic table than she could celebrities, they'd been a bit out of the mix when they grew up in the 80s and 90s. So, the two freaks stuck together. That's what freaks do.   
Sherlock shook his head in disgust at the end of the story.   
“Disgusting, what an imbecile.”   
“Right?”   
“I could poison him.”   
“Absolutely not.”   
“Just enough to get him sick—“   
“No.”   
“I could send him something he's allergic to—“   
“Sherlock, no.”   
Sherlock smiled in defeat.   
“He's an idiot, Irene. You'll find someone better. But if you ever want me to—“   
“I know, Sherlock, remember? We agreed, if one of us ever kills someone, the other helps them hide the body, no questions asked. It's our pact.”   
Sherlock laughed softly, but it was true. They'd made that pact when they were twelve, and both of them would absolutely keep their end of the bargain if need be.   
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said. Just as Irene was about to continue, the bell rang and the door opened.   
The man who stepped inside was sandy haired, a bit short, well built, attractive. His style was a bit bland, earth tones and jeans and a pair of boots.   
“John,” Sherlock said cheerfully. “Looking for flowers for the windowsills?”   
The man smiled.   
“Yeah, actually. That's. . .really amazing, how you do that.”   
Sherlock glowed.   
_Ooooooooohhhhhh,_ Irene thought. _I gotcha._ How dare Sherlock not tell her he had a crush? They would have words later.   
“Might I suggest some _alstroemerias_? How about _a_ _maryllis_?”   
Sherlock got up to show the man the flowers eagerly.   
“Yeah, these are perfect, thanks,” John said with a smile. Irene waved at him.   
“Oh, hi!” he said, sticking out his hand. “Sorry, should've introduced myself. I'm John Watson. Are you Sherlock's girlfriend?”   
Irene chuckled, which made Sherlock glare.   
“No,” she said. “I'm Irene, Irene Adler. You're the new guy in town?”   
“Seems everyone knows it,” John said pleasantly as Sherlock rang him up. “So are you two. . .siblings, then?”   
“Friends,” Irene clarified.   
“Irene is a neuroscientist,” Sherlock said proudly. “She works at New Haven, studying child psychology.”   
“Wow,” John said. “That's really impressive.”   
“Thanks. What'd you do?”   
John looked embarrassed.   
“I was in the army, for a bit. Worked as a surgeon. Now I own the motel up the road.”   
“Surgeon, huh? Bet we have a lot in common, then.”   
“I'm sure we do.” John smiled awkwardly.   
“Well, er, I'd better be going. Nice to meet you, Irene.” He waved as he left, looking a bit flustered.   
Irene giggled.   
“Well, he's got it bad. Acts like a teenager around you.”   
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows.   
“What do you mean?”   
Irene shook her head, still grinning.   
“You'll figure it out,” she said.

 


	4. The First Guest

By the end of the week John had forgotten all about the old Bible in the attic and was focused once more on getting ready for his grand opening.  
Well, it wouldn't exactly be grand, he suspected, but open anyway. Maybe someone would show up.   
  
Someone did show up. 

It was Mrs Hudson.   
  
She was very sweet about it though, and she brought brownies and drank the lemonade John had prepared.   
“This place will be up in no time John, you'll see,” she said encouragingly. John nodded. He was kind of hoping. . .well, what had he been hoping, really? He was hoping someone else would show up.   
  
He got his first April 9th.   
“Is this Fernsby Motel?”   
The men who approached the desk was tall, sharply dressed with an American accent. John thought he looked like a celebrity, someone young and handsome, already more successful than him.   
The man also had a tattoo on his neck, just very small, right above his collar. It seemed to be nothing more than a tiny circle.   
“Watson Motel now, actually,” John said pleasantly, gesturing to where the new sign was outside. “How can I help you?”   
The man's dark eyes swept the room. John suddenly felt danger in his stomach; he didn't like this bloke. He kept his hand on the drawer where his gun was.   
“Is room 23A open?” the man asked.   
“Yes,” John said, eyes narrowed. “Er, is there a reason you'd want 23A?”   
The man shrugged, a bit too stiffly.   
“Old memories, I suppose.”   
The man put a stack of notes on the counter.   
“Cash?” John said skeptically. “I'll need an ID, then.”   
Reluctantly, the man pulled it out and flashed it in his direction. He barely caught the name on it— “Darius Danvers”.   
“Okay Mr Danvers, here's your key. Hope you enjoy your stay.”   
John watched the man's back as he crept down the gravel path to 23A.   
  
  
For two days, the man stayed in 23A. He did not come out, and refused room service. John had just hired a maid, and she didn't even have any work to do, for Danvers always turned her away and said it was better she didn't come back at all, really.   
John didn't like him.  
He reeked of illegal activity. John wondered if he should just call the police, or if that would be too drastic.   
Eventually, he decided he ought to confide in the local opinion.   
  
  
Sherlock was harvesting honey when he heard the bell give a soft ring. He knew immediately who it was by the soft padding of his gate—John Watson.   
“One moment!” he cried, then quickly returned the hive to it's normal state and left the greenhouse.   
John was standing there, looking a bit shy. A quick scan told Sherlock that he didn't intend to purchase anymore flowers, he needed something else.   
“You have questions about something,” he said decidedly. John's lips quirked up quickly. Sherlock committed the expression to memory.   
“Yeah, well, er, there's someone staying at my motel and, erm. . .” John shook his head, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry, this was stupid, I should just call the police, I'll, erm—“   
“No,” Sherlock said, surprising both himself and John. “I mean, maybe I can help. You could tell me. . .over coffee? It's my lunch break anyway.” He didn't really have a lunch break.   
“At 10 AM?” John said.   
“We can go to Speedy's.”   
  
  
John didn't drink coffee, because the stuff gave him anxiety and headaches worse than any hard liquor, but he did invest in a cup of herbal tea as they sat down in the small bakery.   
It smelt amazing, like fresh bread and coffee and something very sweet. The tables were round and worn, the chairs creaky but comfortable. It had a certain undeniable character about it that John found pleasant.   
“So what's the problem?” Sherlock asked as he sipped a heavily sugared black coffee.   
“I had this guy come to stay at the motel,” John said, fidgeting with his arm. “He. . .well, I don't know. I don't like him. He asked for a specific room, 23A, he paid in cash, and he barely let me see his ID. Now he won't even let the maid come in to clean. Maybe I'm being stupid but. . .I dunno, I don't like it.”   
Sherlock thought about it for a moment.   
“Did he have a tattoo?” he asked finally.   
“Yeah, little circle right above his collar.”   
Sherlock nodded gravely.   
“It's a Danvers man, then. Danvers Paper.”   
John's eyebrows furrowed.   
“His ID said Danvers is his last name.”   
“They all do, it's a disguise.” Sherlock lowered his voice, and John leaned closer to hear. “It's a meth ring, John. Danvers Paper runs this town. They employ more than half the town one way or another. Their “paper factory” is just a meth lab.”   
John stared at him, waiting for him to laugh at the joke.   
“Wait, are you serious?”   
Sherlock nodded, sipping his drink.   
“Don't give him any trouble, he'll leave soon.”   
“Does everyone know about this? What about the police?”   
Sherlock shrugged.   
“The police and Danvers have a. . .silent contract. Danvers keeps the town going, the police don't tear them down. I was hoping you would find out. . .later. Didn't really want this scaring you out of here.” He smiled feebly.   
John did the same, flushing a bit.   
“Doesn't scare me,” he said. “I was a soldier. At least it's not boring here.”   
“Not boring, no,” Sherlock chuckled.   
Maybe life in Fernsby was about to get better.

 


	5. The Adventure of the Cardboard Box

_Three Months Ago, London_

 

 

Five voicemails from Charing Cross on the telephone.   
Feeling dread sink deep into the pit of his stomach, John dialed the number back with shaking hands, not bothering to listen to the messages.   
“Yes, hello, this is Dr. John Watson.”   
“How can I help you?”   
“I've got, erm, voicemails, on my phone from you. I think it might be about my brother, Harry Watson.”   
“One moment please.”   
The swift sound of typing.   
“We don't currently have a patient named Harry Watson, but it does say he was here. . . .hold on one moment Doctor Watson.”   
John tapped his foot on the floor. _Please, please let this all be a misunderstanding.  
_“Okay. Records show that there was a Harry Watson here last week. He's been moved to the morgue.”  
  
  
 _Modern Day, Fernsby_

 

 

“So I'm to just. . .ignore him, then?” John said as he and Sherlock strolled back to the flower shop.   
“I think that would be the best course of action. Take precautions. I don't think he'll bother you much longer.”   
They stopped in front of the shop.  
“Thank you,” John said. “For the advice, and the info and all. . .do stop in some time, yeah? When you feel like it.”   
Sherlock smiled.   
“I will. Good luck, John. If you need me, don't hesitate to ask.”   
John would need to take advantage of that offer sooner than he presently thought.   
  
  
When he returned to the motel, all was eerily quiet as before. The truck belonging to Danvers was still parked in front of 23A, unmoved since it first arrived.   
“Violet, has he gone anywhere at all?”   
His young maid, Violet Hunter, was keeping care of the house while the motel was quiet. She was a bright young woman, musically inclined, and she had beautiful hair that she had cut short to keep out of the way while cleaning.   
“No, he hasn't left the room,” she told him earnestly. “Won't let me in either, of course. One of the Danvers men, I'm sure.”   
John nodded, and Violet returned to her duties.   
  
  
At 3AM, John heard a truck start.   
Groggily, he sat up in bed, looking out the window for the source of the noise. He could see the headlights of the American car cutting through the fog as Darius got in.   
Maybe it was the fact that it was 3AM and he was not all there in the brain, or maybe it was just that he was curious—for whatever reason, John went with his gut and decided on following the man.   
He got up and threw on some trousers, then he grabbed his keys and took his gun from the counter, creeping around to the front. He made it to the door just as the truck pulled out.   
Silently, he crept through the darkness and started his own car.   
  
  
He followed Darius down North Minster Street, until it turned to a dirt road verging off the beaten path. The terrain became rougher, and it was harder to keep his distance without Danvers seeing him. Still, he pressed on, his headlights off, until Darius stopped his truck and got out.   
Hidden behind thick vegetation, John was still too far away to see what was going on. He decided to carefully step out of his car, giving great care to slowly closing the door.   
From there, he slowly crept forward until he had a decent view of Darius and the truck, still well concealed himself.   
It was dark, and the man would've been invisible if not for his high beams illuminating his dark suit. John kept one hand on his gun, trying not to shiver. His breathing was, luckily, drowned out by an eager horde of frogs in a near bye pond, chirping happily.   
John watched silently as Darius opened his trunk and removed a large box.   
It was cardboard, thoroughly duct-taped, about the size of a large cat. John watched with his heart thumping as Darius put it on the ground and took out a shovel.   
He was going to _bury_ it.   
  
John suddenly felt that he was in tremendous danger, witnessing something evil that he was not supposed to see.   
He quietly retreated to his car. Once he was in the front seat, the nerves got the best of him and he started it and sped away quickly, looking behind his shoulder even as he made the walk to his door.   
He was awake for the rest of the night.   
  
  
  


 

 


	6. Tea and Peppermint

John awoke the next morning with a strange feeling in his stomach, then recalled the events of the previous night with refreshed interest.   
His tenant was gone, and 23A was spotlessly clean. John asked Violet if she had gone in and done it, but she shook her head.   
“It's how he left it,” she told him.   
John searched every corner, every nook and cranny, but could discover no evidence that anyone had even lodged in 23A at all, much less a criminal.   
_I'll go back to where the box was,_ he thought, _I'll go back and dig it up. Tonight.  
_The thought gave him a type of excitement he hadn't felt in the past sixth months.   
  
  
At 2 PM, John was sitting down to read the paper (which was excruciatingly dull) when the doorbell rang.   
Violet, now accustomed to her temporary roll as John's housekeeper, answered it for him.   
“Mr Holmes,” he heard her say pleasantly. This caused him to leap to his feet and brush himself off. He quickly checked the mantelpiece mirror to see if his hair was in disarray. _What am I doing? Don't be stupid.  
_He went to greet his guest with some anxiety.   
“Sherlock, come in.”   
The florist was at the threshold, holding a small box and looking rather small.   
“Hello,” he said, entering with some shyness. “I-I don't mean to intrude, is it a bad time? I—“   
“Not at all,” John said quickly, taking the man's jacket for him. “I was actually getting rather bored.” He smiled sheepishly.   
Sherlock returned it, then held out the box to him.   
“I thought I'd bring you this, since you like peppermint and roses,” he said, not bothering to explain how he knew. “I've just started drying herbs to make tea with, and this is a new flavour, petals of _rosa_ and leaves of _mentha._ If people like it, I'm going to sell it in my shop, if not. . .” he shrugged.   
“Thank you,” John said genuinely. “Smells great. Violet, why don't you put a pot of this on?”   
Violet nodded and took the box with a smile.   
“Your. . .girlfriend?” Sherlock asked. John chuckled as he gestured for Sherlock to sit on the settee.   
“No, she's the maid. Helping around the house until the motel gets up and running. God, can't imagine the fury I'd instill if I bossed a girlfriend around like that. . .”   
John sat down across from Sherlock in his armchair.   
“So do you have one? A girlfriend, I mean. Is that impertinent to ask?”   
“No,” John said. “S'not impertinent. I don't have one, no. I used to, back in London. Then she cheated on me while I away in the army.”  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking surprised.   
“Cheated on you while you were service?” he said in shock. John shrugged, the memory of Mary sour in his mouth.   
“Yeah. Said it was a “misunderstanding” and that “when I went away she thought we were done.” Well, we kept correspondence until I found out. Was all teary when I left, too. But—“ He shrugged again, rather uncomfortable. Sherlock just nodded. Violet brought in the tea and set it in front of them.   
“So do you have one then?” John asked awkwardly, picking up his cup.   
“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “No, not at all.” He reddened.   
John sipped the tea. It was, unsurprisingly, delicious. The rich taste of the rose petals and the coolness of the mint made him want to sigh.   
He wondered why Sherlock looked so embarrassed. _Oh, John you idiot.  
_“A boyfriend, then?”   
Sherlock shook his head again.   
“Not for a while, no.”   
So he was gay, then. Seemed kinda stupidly obvious now that John thought about it.   
“Well, journey's end in lovers' meeting,” John said, unsure why he would pick that quote. It didn't really make sense, but it was the only one he could think of.   
“I suppose so.”   
Quiet, for a moment.   
“I should get back to the bees,” Sherlock said abruptly.   
“Oh, of course,” John said, rather disappointed. Sherlock stood and put his jacket on, and they awkwardly shook hands. “Thanks for the tea,” John said. “It's delicious. You should put it in the shop.”   
Sherlock nodded with a smile, murmured a timid goodbye, and left.   
  
  
John stewed over the interaction for some hours, in fact, until the sun went down and the temperature dropped outside.   
He wondered if he'd said something wrong, scared off the shy florist. It was stupid, though. He was just a guy, right? Just an acquaintance. He wasn't some school boy with a crush.   
Scoffing at his own paranoia, he set out for his task.   
  
  
He threw a shovel he found in the shed into the trunk of his car and grabbed his gun as well.   
It was hard to remember exactly where it was he'd followed the Danvers man to, but after maybe thirty minutes, he turned onto a familiar dirt road.   
He parked just where he had before, several yards away from Danvers's truck, so that he could judge the distance to the spot.   
Then he got his shovel, and began.   
Digging wise, it only took about twenty minutes. John had certainly done worse, but he was covered in dirt and grime by the time the tip of his shovel hit a solid mass in the ground.   
Quickly, he unearthed the very same cardboard box he'd watched Danvers bury the night before. Excitedly, he yanked it from the ground. It was surprisingly heavy—what was in here?   
He put it down and cut it open with a pocketknife. Then he threw aside the flaps and found. . .  
Rocks.   
Four or five, precisely, and a small piece of paper. He moved them around in confusion, looking for something else, but they were, indeed, the only items there. He picked up the paper.   
Then chills ran down his spine.   
  
_Stay away, John Watson, if you value your life._  


 


	7. The Birthday Tradition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating, have had block lol.

For the next several days John feared he was having some sort of nervous breakdown—he was a bundle of anxiety and strange, foreign thoughts.   
For example, one day, he was doing the dishes from lunch, and he was rinsing off the knife he used to spread the mayonnaise across his sandwich, and he suddenly thought, “Hmmp. I could stab someone with this.” And he briefly imagine what that would look and feel like, then he threw the silverware down and decided maybe he just ought to watch television for a while.   
He didn't see the Danvers man again, except the morning after he'd found the box, he thought he saw a black truck creep slowly by the motel, but it could've just been any black truck, really, so he tried not to think too much of it.   
He yearned for some sort of company—Violet was very nice, and she tended well to the house and the several patrons John housed, but she was only half his age, (nineteen?) or too young anyway. Mrs Hudson visited frequently, and she was always pleasant to have a chat with, but John thought he really ought to get back on the market and meet somebody. If he was going to live here, it would be nice to have a wife and a kid or two and have that proper, normal family his dad was always on about.   
That woman Irene, she'd seemed nice. She was attractive (dark hair, sharply dressed, lean and tall and regal) and very smart as well. She'd even said they might have some stuff in common. Maybe he'd ask Sherlock for her number.   
  
It was Harry's birthday, May 10th, and John tried not to think about it at first.   
Harry usually celebrated by going out and getting wasted and calling John to please come pick him up, he couldn't get a cab and he was stranded on that strip near Whitechapel, you know the one?   
Then John would inevitably go find him, wandering around some lonely alley, already having forgotten he called. Birthdays were never a good time for Harry.   
But John figured his brother deserved some kind of remembrance, in some kind of way, and he tried to think of what they would do before Harry drank.  
God, how long ago was it? He must've been ten or eleven. They would go to the arcade with all the change John scrounged up from keeping his eye sharply on the ground for the few months before.   
So John went out that day, and he collected all the change he could find. He went to the laundromat and the market and the bar and just picked up change—a penny here, a two pence there, until he was on Baker Street, picking up change from the sidewalk.  
  
  
“Your boyfriend's gone right insane,” Irene remarked as she peered out the window. “Crouching down in the street like a bloody bum looking for change.”   
Sherlock got up, eyebrows cinched, and followed her gaze. John Watson was, indeed, on all fours on the sidewalk, scrounging about and picking up whatever he could find.   
“He's not my boyfriend,” Sherlock said compulsively.   
“Hmm, but you're gonna go down there.”   
He did.   
  
“John?”   
John looked up, surprised to see the tall, lanky form of Sherlock Holmes hovering in front of him, looking a bit concerned. He leapt to his feet.   
“Sherlock,” he said. “Erm, I was—well, it's going to sound silly, it was silly, er, I just—“ Sherlock held up a hand to stop him.   
“You don't need to explain,” he said kindly. “If you don't want to. Come inside?”   
“You live here?” John said stupidly.   
“Yes.”   
“All right.”   
  
Irene was gone when they got in, (probably fleeing to give them privacy) but Sherlock's flat was a hub of activity.   
There were botanical experiments strewn across every surface, plants with all kinds of tubes or lights or dripping liquids, the air perfumed with the scent of fertile soil and flowers.   
The flat had two giant windows, facing west so that sunlight spilled across every room.   
“It's a nice place you've got,” John said numbly, a bit in awe at the way this strange and fascinating man lived.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, flushing a bit and clearing a spot for John to sit.   
“Bet you think I'm mad, rummaging around for change,” John said awkwardly as he sat down.   
“I'm sure you've got a reason.”  
He didn't pry further, or talk to John about “rough patches” or anything like that, instead seemingly entirely understanding. He didn't need John to justify his behavior just because it wasn't normal. He just assumed that whatever it was, John needed to do it.   
This gave John a kind of warm, trusting feeling. Like Sherlock was someone he could really be comfortable with, because he felt that whatever he said, Sherlock would believe him, no questions asked. Eventually, this feeling of safety turned into John venting everything about the box and Danvers, his brother's death, and even his strange attempt at a birthday celebration.   
Sherlock patiently listened to it all while tinkering with a plant John didn't bother observing until the end of his rant.   
“Wait, is that cannabis?”   
Sherlock turned away from the plant at this abrupt change of subject.   
“Oh,” he said with a blush. “Erm, yes. I don't smoke it, but I do grow it. I think it has great medical potential.”   
John, being a doctor, didn't disagree. Cannabis did have medical purposes, but it was illegal to grow and own nonetheless.   
However, the idea of Sherlock growing weed illegally in his apartment solely for scientific research was kind of hilarious to John.   
“So you're telling me you grow weed in your apartment to study it and you've never tried it before?”   
Sherlock shook his head.   
“It makes you stupid,” he said.   
John chuckled.   
“You're funny, Sherlock,” he said, amused.   
“I don't try to be.”   
“I know, that's why you are.”   
Sherlock looked contemplative for a second, processing the words, then cracked into a smile, which then turned into an uncontrollable bout of laughter.

 


	8. Infinite 2Ams

John couldn't recall exactly when they'd started drinking—maybe it was right after Sherlock proposed a game of Cribbage (since no other two player games were coming into his memory, and he was awfully enjoying John's company) or maybe it was after the first two or three cups of coffee—whenever it was, it continued on, until both men were drunk on some whiskey and midnight hours.   
“I didn't take you for a hard drinker,” John said teasingly as Sherlock sipped his very iced beverage.   
“I'm more of a [hiccup!] wine. . .fellow myself,” he admitted. John smiled. He was definitely buzzed, probably nearly drunk, but nowhere near as much as Sherlock. Evidently he was a light weight, because he could hardly form proper sentences.   
“Maybe you should drink some water,” John suggested.   
“Maybe you should drink some whiskey. I don't like being drunk alone, you know.”   
John laughed, laughed so hard he felt it deep in his belly. He hadn't laughed like this in years.   
“You're right, selfish of me,” he said when he had gotten control of himself. He filled his glass again and swallowed it with a swift gulp.   
“It's too light in here,” Sherlock complained. He hazardously tripped his way to the light switch and turned it off. That left them in complete darkness. So he turned it back on, rummaged around for a candle, lit it, and turned the lights back off.   
So that's were John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were on the 10th of May, 1AM. Sitting on the floor of 221b with a lily scented candle in-between them and laughter in their eyes. 

“Kind of ironic,” John said softly, eyes on the abandoned cribbage board.   
“Hmmm?”  
It was time now that his drunkenness went from that raucous, hilarious state and sunk into a more melancholy, 'I'm-going-to-be-sad-now' state. It happened as he was sobering up, but no quite sober yet.   
It was one reason he didn't like to drink like this anymore.   
“S'just, I wanted to remember my brother today, you know? How he was before he drank.”   
“The coins,” Sherlock remembered.   
“Yeah. But. . .I ended up drunk. Just like he would've been. It's a bit funny, really. Wonder if the bastard looked down and planned it.”   
A soft smile ghosted across his face, but then it was gone. He felt like that moment, where he was right then, could've gone on forever. There is some infinite about spending the hour of 2am with a friend, drunk on each other. It is one of those moments that is so raw and human that John felt like the texture of the maroon carpet and the smell of lilacs and the open window and Sherlock's eyes were the only real things in the world right then.   
“Maybe it was just inevitable,” Sherlock yawned. “I mean, did you really stop outside my flat by mistake?”   
John thought about. Sherlock had told him he lived on Baker Street. Did he stumble here subconsciously, looking for comfort from the only friend he had?   
“Can I crash on your sofa?”   
“I've got a guest bed, on the right.”   
John forced himself to his feet, stumbled in, and fell asleep with his clothes on.   
  
  
221B was empty when John woke well into the afternoon with an absolutely crushing migraine. Evidence of their pity party was gone. He found a note on the table.   
_Painkillers in the cabinet. Good luck. Had fun last night. ~SH_

 

At the last line, John's stomach sank. _Wait, did we sleep together?_ No. No, he would've remembered that. No, he slept in the guest bed.   
He fished around and found the painkillers, took two. He felt like he shouldn't just leave this place without saying anything, so he decided to leave a note back.   
_I did too. Thanks for letting me stay :) JW_  
Feeling a bit distorted and more than a little hungover, he left.   
  


 


	9. The Thornes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't been writing, was on vacation.

Weeks passed and Watson Motel was a summer hub.   
John was please to see that new guests were pouring in every day, and everyone seemed to be very much enjoying themselves. After that night at Sherlock's, (he couldn't exactly recall everything that happened, or, erm, most of it) he didn't see much of the man, and when he did, it was slightly awkward. They danced around each other like they'd had a bad one night stand rather than a blackout-drunk, two-person party.  
Really, John told himself, it was ridiculous. All they'd done was play cribbage, and. . .well, it wasn't _flirting_. Just banter.   
Whatever. They were friends, right? They'd both get over it. Hopefully.   
  
The first time John had remembered the old Bible was, well, never.   
He stumbled upon it again accidentally, while rummaging around for a spare light bulb to replace the one on Block B that had gone out.   
“Oh,” he muttered to himself, a bit excited again at the prospect of discovering something interesting. “Forgot all about you, didn't I?” He stroked the aging leather cover and leafed it open.   
Inside he found what had fluttered to the floor that day.   
It was a photograph, so old it must've been taken by one of the earliest cameras. It was a portrait of a young girl, maybe 14, dark-skinned, elegant. Her clothes said Civil War Era, and she wore her hair in two long plaits down her shoulders.   
There was an inscription at the bottom;   
_Isebelle Thorne, 1866_  
  
John ended up on his laptop, deciding to go to the internet for answers. He found no record of an Isebelle Thorne for the date on the photograph, not here at least. He did, however, find two other Thorne's in Fernsby: Jeremiah and Heiod, brothers, both of whom left the same year the photo was taken.   
He closed his computer. No funeral or birth records. He wondered why.   
He had a local source he could confide in.   
  
“Thorne?” Irene said, swinging her legs back and forth thoughtfully as she sat on Sherlock's desk. “I know the name.”   
Sherlock frowned.   
“It's a sad story,” he said. “What interest do you have in it, John?”   
“I found this in the attic.” He showed him the photograph, then Irene. They both peered at it, then looked at each other thoughtfully.   
“Shall you tell it, then?” Irene said. “I haven't heard it properly since sitting around a campfire in Secondary School.”   
Sherlock folded his hands on his lap, looking at John. John felt a shudder go down his spine.   
“Well,” Sherlock started.   
  
“In 1864, Isebelle and James Thorne, as well as their three children, were previously slaves in America, when they were smuggled to England on a ship called The Ghost to avoid the war.   
When they got here, Fernsby was one of the least densely populated towns in the north, so they decided to settle here.  
At first it was fine. Heiod and Jeremiah were adults, so they made a career of farming pretty nicely, and Isebelle (named for her mother) and her parents lived where the Watson Motel now sits, Cross Road Lane.   
It was mostly white Englishmen here at the time, and strictly Catholic. Slavery had already been abolished in England, but there was still stigma and apparently, ardent supporters of slavery had fled to small towns like Fernsby where they could have their, erm, views, in solitary peace.   
Well, unbeknownst to this, the Thorne family was startled at the treatment they received. They were used to it, of course, at home, but had been told that England would be far more liberal and accepting.   
Things were tense, but they pushed through, thinking that if they kept to themselves, perhaps the rest of the town would lay off.  
The war ended a year later, and the town became more sour than ever. Those who had been planning to move to Southern Union to farm tobacco and cotton with promised free labor, now had no hope for their ideology.   
The final straw that seemed to snap the entire town into their rampage happened in December of 1866, when the Thorne's had the audacity to hold their own small, Evangelical ceremony in their home rather than attend the usual Catholic church.   
When the villagers heard of this, they promptly stormed to Cross Road Lane, with pitchforks and torches, so to speak, and found three of the Thornes: Isebelle, James, and Young Isebelle.   
They overpowered them quickly, and took them to the backyard. Then, horrifically, they lynched the Thornes, making each one watch as the next victim was hanged.   
Then they set the house on fire and fled.  
Heiod and Jeremiah heard of the incident and were able to escape south, supposedly to London. The photograph you found was of Isebelle Thorne, the year she was murdered.”

 


End file.
